


Sworn to ice and fire

by EternalFangirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon married both, Multi, Two Queens, Wishful ending, best of both worlds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-25 16:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10767810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalFangirl/pseuds/EternalFangirl
Summary: It was a sensible proposal. "“Then marry us both,” Dany told Jon. “Sansa’s son can be King of Winter, and ours can sit on the Iron Throne."Sansa would have protested, but Jon's face was fun to watch. He looked like he would rather battle Drogon alone.Update every week (the fic is already written, the ink is dry).





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> I am still writing the Pack Survives, but Jon is stuck on the wall there, and I missed him. So here’s a story where he is in the middle of it. Literally.

Sansa would have shown outrage at the Dragon Queen’s demands, if Jon hadn’t turned an appalling shade of red and started spluttering.

 

Jon’s protests made Sansa swallow her own and give actual thought to the terms put forward by the Dragon Queen. Daenerys wasn’t being cunning, she was simply discussing a possible solution to a problem. She was a friend, as much as a person could be a friend in this game of thrones. Sansa desperately wanted the North to be free once more, but it was true that Bran could never father an heir. Jon had argued that Sansa’s first son could be King of Winter after Bran, and that is when Daenerys had offered a solution.

 

“Then marry us both,” she had said. “Sansa’s son can be King of Winter, and ours can sit on the Iron Throne.”

 

Jon still looked as though he would much rather challenge Drogon to single combat than marry Sansa. Her own discomfort at the thought of marrying him morphed slowly into mirth at his silent suffering. Even the Dragon Queen was smiling.

 

“She will be Queen Regent once there is an heir,” Daenerys continued. “They will both live at Winterfell, and the child will grow up in the North, learning from his uncle. What more could you want? You will be a father to two kings, Jon. And the North and the South would be ruled by brothers, by their children after them. The two lands would be kin, and peace will reign.”

 

Sansa tried to imagine sharing a bed with the man she had grown up with, the man she had thought of as her brother. He was her cousin, she knew now. And soon he would be her husband. The thought of him in her bed was so strange it never materialized properly in her head.

 

Still, it was a good price to pay for Bran’s birthright, for her escape from King’s Landing. She wanted to go North, to escape this place with its terrible memories and its rotten halls. Jon was a good man, a kind man, and he wouldn’t hurt her. Well, any more than he had to. Sansa knew from experience that the basest act of coupling hurt, but he wouldn’t be cruel to her, she was certain.

 

“And what after?” whispered Jon, setting down the goblet he had just drained with a little more force than necessary.

 

“After what?” asked the Dragon Queen, with a glance at Sansa. Her raised eyebrow seemed to ask her if she knew what Jon spoke of. She didn’t.

 

“What after she goes home? After the wedding, after the...” He didn’t complete the sentence. “Sansa deserves a man who loves her, a man who will care for her and protect her. I want her to have a companion for life, Your Grace. Not a man who will throw her away like a broken toy once he is done with her.”

 

“She can also speak for herself, you know,” said Sansa. “She is sitting right here.”

 

“She is welcome to marry again,” said Daenerys to her with a smile. “Or to keep a lover. A harem, if it suits her.”

 

Sansa thought about the future some more. She would have her son, and it wasn’t as if she would never see the King consort of the Seven Kingdoms. Would she really need a man? Would she want one? “I do not see why having a man in my life is important,” she said finally. She felt like she was done with the whole lot of them, to be honest. She would like it very much if she didn’t have to marry someone else. She didn’t want a harem, she wanted peace. She wanted to be away from the gazes of men, sinking into her like teeth, gnawing away at her clothing with nothing more than a look. “And if I need one, I will find one.”

 

“It is decided then?” said Daenerys, and her eyes were on Jon. He said nothing, and Sansa realized she would have to convince him.

 

Sansa had thought that Bran would understand the need for this marriage far better than Arya, but she had been wrong. It was Bran who sent letter after letter, and Arya had come to King’s Landing herself. Her blacksmith, now the lord of Storm’s End, was with her as well. “I have come to attend your weddings,” Arya had said to a surprised Jon, and he had left with a clenched fist and a frown. Arya had smiled at his retreating back. “Still needs convincing then?” she had asked Sansa, and Dany had laughed out loud.

 

When Sansa finally convinced him to take her as a wife, when she had screamed at him and pleaded with him until he agreed, Sansa wondered if her lady mother would be proud of her. She had just convinced a bastard she had called brother all her life to take her as his second wife. It didn’t seem to matter that much to her, and she wondered what had happened to the little girl who believed in the tales of knights and fair maidens. It all seemed terribly dull to her now. Jon was a knight, and the prince of the six kingdoms. If Daenerys were to die today, he would be king. But again, the thought of marrying a prince failed to thrill her. She felt as if she were taking advantage of him, of his sweet nature. He wanted her safe, though, didn’t he? She would never be safe from the savage men in the kingdom, not until she married someone. She had chosen the one man she believed would never harm her, and she could not bring herself to regret that decision. Not even at dinner later that evening, when Jon drank cup after cup of wine and refused the food.

 

He got drunk the day before their wedding too.

 

She had been surrounded by her handmaidens, discussing how to do her hair and which slippers to wear the next day, when Jon had stumbled in, his expression sour. He had asked everyone to leave them alone, and stared at the wedding paraphernalia lying about for a long while before he spoke.

 

“I am not going to visit your bed till you ask me to,” he said finally, his eyes finding hers.

 

“Jon--”

 

“No,” he said. “I am going to marry two women tomorrow, gods help me. But I won’t bed two wives like a horny bugger, hopping from one bed to the other like they mean nothing to me. You--you matter to me, Sansa. What you want matters to me. I know you… I know your past has been--I… I won’t visit your bed till you wish it,” he said finally. His tone brooked no argument.

 

Sansa’s heart had started to beat wildly when he had started talking, and before she could find the wits to reply, he was gone.

 

And then, twenty-four hours later, she was a married woman again. She lay in the same bed Jon had scowled at the night before, and thought of the wedding--weddings--that had taken place that day.

 

Daenerys had looked beautiful in the sept, under the splintered light of the seven, with her golden gown and the red and black cloak. She had smiled at Jon, who hadn’t smiled back. He had looked so out of place there, Sansa remembered fondly, inside a crypt for perhaps the first time in his life. He hadn’t liked it at all. He had looked like a little child who had been told to behave, and it had made Sansa smile.

 

He had been much more at ease in the godswood that night. These were  _ his _ gods, the gods he had prayed to all his life, and the gods that had witnessed his solemn oath. These gods had shown Bran the way to win the war, she knew. The great war had been won because of them, and now they were here to witness Sansa being married again.

 

His eyes were solemn and kind as they said their vows, and his kiss had been on her cheek, a cold peck in the warm weather. She had smiled at him after, truly smiled at the man she believed would finally treat her right, and he had smiled back. Well, he had tried to, but it had looked more like a grimace. It had made the queen laugh out loud.

 

And now they were probably in the queen’s bedchambers, and Jon was doing his conjugal duty. She wondered what she was supposed to feel in this moment, for the thought didn’t bother her at all. She was, in fact, thankful that Jon had someone else to bed. Gone were the days when she had dreamed of a gentle lover, of bedding a kind man. Sansa couldn’t hear them, thankfully. She had screamed fiercely when she had lost her maidenhead to Ramsay, and even after, but she didn’t think the Queen would scream like that. Somehow, she seemed more easy in the ways of amorous congress, more knowledgeable. Sansa wondered if she had had a harem in Meereen. It didn’t seem impossible.

 

Sansa was certain she was gawking outrageously at Dany and Jon the next day, but she couldn’t stop. She stared as they broke their fast, Jon growing steadily redder in the face as the women talked of nothing more titillating than the weather. Dany didn’t look to be in pain, which surprised her. She was walking without even a hint of discomfort, and there didn’t seem to be any difference in her at all. Sansa wondered if she could ask her about it. In the end, the topic of the marriage bed proved too taboo for her to even whisper about, and she let it go.

 

Sansa had thought she would always hate the South, for she had such horrible memories of the Red Keep. But she learned quickly enough that the inhabitants make all the difference, for she loved spending time with Dany and Jon. It didn’t feel as strange as she had thought it would, and she was quite content sewing in the solar while Dany read historical tomes and Jon sat carving wood next to the fire. He had a Valyrian steel dagger that some vassal had gifted him, and he’d taken to carving little wooden figurines with it. The scraping sound of steel on wood was soothing to her. Dany had gifted her a Valyrian steel dagger too, with a wolf carved on the hilt. To protect herself if needed, Dany had said, and Sansa had thanked her profusely. There had been a time when the notion of carrying a blade would have horrified her, but she was not that little girl anymore. She knew now that she was the only person she could trust to protect her. And perhaps Dany knew that too. She and Dany were fast becoming friends, and her easy familiarity and strong spirit reminded Sansa of Margaery Tyrell. She seemed like the sort of woman who didn’t mind being discourteous, who seemed to know her own strength. Sansa could tell that women would not be considered weak under her rule.

 

She knew the men stared and the women gossiped about her, but she had learned how to ignore them years ago, when she had still been a child. The servants whispered about the condition of her marriage to Jon, of how he never visited her, but it didn’t seem to matter to Dany. And as long as the arrangement seemed good to the three of them, Sansa didn’t care. Dany wasn’t one to gossip about her husband, and Sansa liked not knowing the secrets of their marriage bed.

 

That changed the day she saw Jon and Dany kiss.

 

Sansa had been sitting with Ghost in the godswood all morning. She hadn’t been praying, not really. Instead, she had been relishing the quiet of the place, the way time seemed to stand still there. Jon had just returned from visiting Arya and Lord Baratheon at Storm’s End, and the courtyard had been alive with activity. Rhaeghal had been screaming fiercely after Jon had dismounted, and the dragon still scared her. She had escaped to the godswood to wait him out. Sooner or later, he would take flight, but she had been content to wait with Ghost. He came with her when she left, quiet as a shadow, but left her side again when she entered Maegor’s holdfast. Dany had given her bigger rooms, for which she was grateful. She still hadn’t stepped inside her old chambers, for she feared the memories.

 

She had turned down a corridor to go to her new rooms when she saw them. Jon was still clad in his travelling clothes, with his windswept hair awry as he held Dany in a tight embrace. Jon’s kiss was passionate, like the ones in songs half forgotten. They had never kissed before her. Sansa should have announced herself, should have made a noise, but she didn’t. Instead, she shrank back to watch, too intrigued to be scandalized by her instincts. Jon’s hands were restlessly roaming Dany’s waist and back, as if gripping for purchase, while Dany grabbed his hair in a way that surely should have hurt, but Jon didn’t even seem to notice. He backed her up with his body till Dany was against the wall, and then Jon did something with his mouth that made Dany moan deep and loud. Jon was standing too close to her, impossibly close, with a thigh between her legs, and Dany let her head fall back to the wall when Jon’s kisses migrated south to her neck, to the swells of her breasts where they peaked out of her dress. Sansa watched, still quiet, and licked her suddenly dry lips. Her heart was pounding, but she couldn’t have stopped herself from watching if she tried. Jon’s kisses were so wet on Dany’s neck that she could see the spit glistening in the firelight from the other end of the corridor. Jon’s hands had left Dany’s waist to travel south before Sansa heard a door slam shut somewhere, breaking the spell. What was she doing? Her face flamed as she fled, chastising herself even as she wondered.

 

Sleep was a long time coming that night. She couldn’t stop thinking about what she had seen, couldn’t stop imagining what she had missed. She couldn’t stop remembering the way Dany’s eyes had slipped closed in bliss. What would she have done if Dany had opened her eyes and seen her? What if Sansa hadn’t run away? She thought about the way Jon’s hand had started making it’s way south, to the place where Dany’s slender legs met, and she could feel a hot ache in her own smallclothes, like the warm ghost of Jon’s fingers. The heaviness there prompted her to grind a heel against herself, and she gasped out loud when the heat melted into wetness. It made her imagine far wilder things, like Jon’s mouth on  _ her _ , and she stifled a frustrated groan as she turned onto her side to stare at the fire in her hearth.

  
She wished she had waited instead of running away.


	2. Dany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going on a road trip for the week, gonna soak in some sun at the beach. Don't worry, the next chapter is written

It is difficult to know what you want before you have it, Dany knew. She had never known how much her dragons would mean to her, never known the thrill of power before it coursed through. Now, it was difficult to imagine that she had lived without this little family of hers. 

 

The singers already compared them to Aegon and his sisters, she knew. She wondered who played which roles in their heads, then decided she didn’t care. Her husband and her sister brought her peace, a sense of belonging she had never felt with Viserys. She found herself wishing for more time in the day so she could simply sit by the fire and hear the scrape of Jon’s dagger, the gentle sounds of Sansa’s needle. She swelled with pride when she heard Sansa’s laugh, eager to cause her mirth again. She wanted the hours to stretch like honey when Jon was in her bed, when he was pleasing her with his lips, his tongue, his hands and his mouth.

 

Jon was quite unlike the other men she had bedded. Dany still remembered her Khal very fondly, but he had been a man with big appetites, often uncaring of Dany’s own. He hadn’t really paid much attention to Dany when they made love, for it was his right as her husband, and her duty to let him. Even if she was tired, or saddle-sore, it mattered not. She was his wife, his  _ khaleesi _ , and he would bed her when he wanted. She had learned to please him, of course, and she had learned to find her own pleasure with him. But she remembered the agony of the nights before she had finally figured it out.

 

Daario Naharis, on the other hand, certainly knew how to please a woman. The only problem with him had been that he had been so sure of his own prowess that it soured Dany’s mood to see him gloat. Not with words, of course. He wasn’t that crass. He wouldn’t speak of it, not really, but he would smirk at her as if his attention was a great gift he was bestowing on Dany. That was a man completely drunk on his own ego. Too many women had told him how good he was, and by the end Dany had felt like she couldn’t thoroughly enjoy his attentions without inflating his head further.

 

Jon fucked as though  _ Dany  _ was bestowing some great gift on him. He wasn’t hesitant or craven in any way, but he never assumed her pleasure like both her previous lovers had, never gloated or preened. Instead, he seemed to be consumed by her. His attention, his hot gaze, were like a drug she craved. Jon looked at her like she was the most important person in the world when she was in his bed. He seemed to glean his pleasure from her own, something she found incredibly intimate, and never assumed her participation like Daario.  He was, in fact, the sweetest man she had invited into her bed.

 

And gods, how she loved Sansa.

 

Sansa was her sweet sister, the sister she had never realized she had wanted. They talked often, and Dany knew that Sansa trusted her as well as she was able to. She had scars, this valiant sister of hers, scars that the Lannisters and the Boltons had given her. They weren’t all visible to the eye, not unless you knew where to look, but Dany saw. She saw the distrust in Sansa’s eyes, and heard it in the hesitant tones when Sansa talked of the past. She understood, better than most, what a beautiful woman meant to the people of this cruel world. She saw the agony of the past that had shaped the woman of the present.

 

Jon saw too. That was perhaps the only reason why he still hadn’t bedded Sansa months after their wedding. Dany heard the servants whisper, and more than that, she saw. The relationship between Sansa and Jon hadn’t changed much since the end of the Great War. She could have insisted, but she loved having Sansa around, and there was no need to hurry her away. Sansa would leave as soon as her belly quickened, Dany knew. The Northerners would certainly demand it. She was sure they would want their king steeped in their culture even before he was born. Dany decided she would fly to Winterfell often, once it happened. It only took five days to get there. Jon would love to come too, she was sure. He loved Sansa dearly, if not in a carnal way.  That affection between them would grow in time, she was sure. Until then, Sansa was very welcome to stay in King’s Landing.

 

She was perhaps the only one to notice when Sansa began to see Jon in a different light.

 

Jon was blind to the way Sansa colored when he entered a room, or the way she would stare at his hands sometimes. Dany saw the curiosity in those pretty blue eyes, and she saw that Sansa had begun to think differently. Jon, bless his gentle heart, was blind as a bat when it came to the woman he had once called sister, but Dany smiled indulgently when she observed those two together. It was endearing to see, and great entertainment.

 

It was probably the biggest reason why Dany did it.

 

She had been studying Westerosi lore like she always did in the evening, soothed by the scrape of her husband’s dagger on a block of wood, and the crackling of the fire. Sansa sat stitching a new dress for Dany, a brilliant purple to match her eyes. She studied them for a moment, bored of her books, then smiled as an idea formed. This was her family, she decided, the family she had always wanted to have. A family she loved dearly. So she would play with them a little, she decided. She would help them along.

 

“I am off to bed,” she declared as she stood up from her chair.

 

Sansa looked up from her work with a smile. “Pleasant dreams, Dany,” she said. Her attention returned back to her work.

 

Jon was too engrossed in his block of wood to actually say anything, but Dany didn’t mind. She simply stepped up to him, bent to cradle his head, and kissed him goodnight.

 

It was a gentle kiss, but in no way was it a tame one. She let her mouth open, relishing the closeness. Jon stiffened at first, perhaps acutely aware that this was the first time they were kissing in front of Sansa, but she didn’t stop. Soon, he melted, and his tongue slipped out to play a little. Dany smiled against his lips, nipped at the bottom one, and left without a backward glance.

 

It became less of a game and more of a habit after a few days. She kissed her husband more openly, thrilling in the way he would melt into her. Sansa always watched quietly, as if afraid to remind Dany that she was there. The first time Jon kissed Dany of his own accord before he left the room, Dany could  _ feel  _ Sansa’s gaze from across the room.  _ You can have this, little sister _ , she wanted to say.  _ I will share him with you. All you have to do is ask.  _

 

When Sansa did ask a vague question to satisfy her curiosity, Dany was thrilled. Jon had taken Rhaeghal North to work out some things with Lord Brandon Stark, and she and Sansa had been alone in the solar that evening. They had never before discussed Jon, or the royal bed. Dany wouldn’t have minded a little bit of gossip, but Sansa had seemed to be averse to the idea, so they never had. Sansa herself broke that unspoken agreement one day, when she had had a little too much wine.

 

“What is it like?” she asked Dany, pouring herself another cup.

 

Dany wondered vaguely if she should stop her. “Sex?”

 

“No,” said her sister, waving a hand. “I know all about that. What is it like to trust a man?”

 

“You don’t trust Jon?” Dany knew the answer, of course, but it never hurt to confirm, to make Sansa think along those lines.

 

Wine sloshed as Sansa struggled to sit up a little straighter. “Well, yes, of course I do. I didn’t mean--Dany, it isn’t...” She took a deep breath and started over. “Ever since I left Winterfell, men have looked at me like I am a slab of meat to own, the key to the North, to lock up or to… to  _ fuck-- _ ” She whispered the word. “All of them. The ones that helped me and the ones that didn’t. Jon isn’t like that. He isn’t interested in me like that.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

Sansa’s eyes widened. “What--Because he… Dany, we have been married for months now!” Sansa realized she was too uncoordinated to hold her cup and set it down on Dany’s desk. “He has never once presumed… he hasn’t made a single advance--”

 

“That is because he is Jon,” Dany cut in. “He will not touch you without your consent. He told me of his promise to you. I know he won’t break it, no matter how the servants gossip. But don’t take it to mean that he does not want you. Until you explore that path, you do not know how it ends.” She reached out to grasp her sister’s arm and said the words she had wanted to say for a long while. “He can belong to you, if you just ask.”

 

Sansa stared at her, her eyes overbright. She didn’t speak for a long time, but Dany knew her mind was churning, and she returned to her books. Let Sansa think about the possibility of Jon. She tried to imagine it herself, Jon refusing a visit to her bed because he wanted to go and visit Sansa. The notion roused no jealousy, no anger. It only made her unbearably fond of her little family, of her sister and her husband, of their love.

 

She wanted Sansa to have the love of a man who respected her, who looked at her as though she was bestowing a great gift on him. Sansa deserved that, and more.

 

“You wouldn’t mind?” Sansa asked in a small voice, as though anticipating a scolding. “If he… if I asked him to kiss me, if I asked him to...” Sansa colored and never finished her sentence.

 

“He belongs to both of us,” said Dany. “We are a family, the three of us, and I would begrudge you nothing, Sansa. He already loves you, why would it bother me if he shows it? He kisses you already, on the forehead, on your hands, on your cheeks. Why should his kisses anywhere else bother me? He embraces you already, whenever he is happy or sad, whenever he wants to. Why should I mind if there is passion in his arms? He already shows you he loves you in all these little ways, and a dozen others. Bedding you would just be a new way. As his wife, you are entitled to it, as am I.”

 

Sansa didn’t speak again all evening. Her hands were deft and clever with her needle even as she thought, even as she perhaps imagined true passion for the first time in her life.

 


	3. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back from my vacation, and just about ready to write more chapters of _The Pack Survives_. My Brimstone fic, which is a oneshot, will be posted next week unless a new chapter of _The Pack Survives_ is ready.

He had missed home, he realized with a jolt when the ruined dragon pit on Rhaenys's hill became visible. When had he started to think of King’s Landing as his home? He had lived all his life in the cold of the North, wet and freezing. The South was too warm, too colorful, too uncaring of the problems of the North. He was too dour for this place, too fierce and wild, too serious. He didn’t belong in the south, no matter his blood.

 

But he belonged with them.

 

He loved both his wives, gods help him, and he had missed them both. Dany had sent him off with a smile the morning he left, and the night before that had been wild. There had been a frenzy that was better suited to a night before a deadly battle instead of a friendly visit. Neither of them had wasted time on sleep, and she had laughed when he had grabbed her the third time. He hadn’t felt any excitement about going North. Instead, when her mouth had closed around him, he had thought about how sorely he would miss Dany before thought and seed left him completely.

 

He had missed Sansa more than he had thought he would, with every corner of Winterfell reminding him of childhood memories. She had scowled at him and he had sulked at her all throughout their childhood, but now she smiled at him freely, and he missed her hugs the most.

 

Would she smile at him now? Had she missed him?

 

He had thought of the child she had been during their days in Winterfell, but at night his dreams had dismissed the child and focused on the woman she had become. He had dreamt of her often, her beautiful hair falling in a soft curtain around his face as she looked down at him with a smile on her lips. He could feel the heat of her body in his dream, the way her breasts brushed his chest as she moved over him. He had yearned for her then, first in the dream and then when he was awake, cursing himself for a wretched fool and drowning in his guilt. What would Dany think of him? What sort of man was he? Was one woman not enough for him? Sansa didn’t want him. As far as he knew, she didn’t want  _ anyone _ . What would she think of his lust? 

 

He put those thoughts aside when he saw his wives standing in a window of Maegor’s holdfast. They each lifted a hand to wave at him, ice and fire side by side. He lifted his own in turn. When Jon landed in the great courtyard, Rhaegal let out a happy screech, green wings flapping wildly, scaring the servants who had rushed forward to take his heavy cloak and his gloves. He had seen his mother.

 

He found them outside, smiling broadly, and hugged them both in turn. Dany’s kiss he had expected, but Sansa’s shy peck surprised and pleased him in equal measure. She seemed unsure of what was little more than an innocent, perfunctory kiss, albeit on the lips. He smiled warmly at her, and she smiled back. Then Ghost butted his head against Jon, and the moment was gone.

 

After dinner, when they were all sitting in the solar once again, Jon turned to Sansa.

 

“I have a gift for you,” he said, and she perked up instantly. “I made it myself.”

 

He produced the carving he had made for her, a young direwolf sitting on its haunches and howling at the moon. It was about as big as his face, and he wished he could have carved a bigger one, but the whimsical swirls he had scraped in place of fur all over its body had taken days upon days of labor. He was pretty certain that this was the biggest piece he could have handled. To him, it looked like a poor imitation of the real thing, but her eyes shone fiercely as he handed it to her.

 

“It ain’t as big as I wanted, of course,” he said as he watched her face. “I started out with a big enough piece of wood, but then kept whittling to perfect the shape, and it just… ended up all tiny.”

 

“It’s perfect,” said Sansa as her eyes filled. Her finger traced one of the swirls in the wood, and she refused to look at him. “Lady...”

 

Jon didn’t know what to say. Are you supposed to tell a crying woman to stop weeping or to let it all out? He held his hands out, palm up, before realizing how stupid he looked, and lowered them. “Don’t cry,” he said finally, half protest and half request.

 

In response, Sansa flung herself at him, and there was a desperation to this hug that he remembered from that day before the great war, when she had finally come to him at Castle Black, his only link to home and family. He hugged her tight, laughing awkwardly and trying not to tear up himself. It hadn’t been meant to make her cry, this gift. He had made it because he had seen the way she stuck to Ghost’s side, untangling his fur and talking to him. He had heard her talk about her own direwolf pup, taken from them before her time, and he had tried to give her a token to appease her, to tell her he remembered the sweet little pup too. To show her that he knew the love she must have had for her Lady.

 

When Sansa kissed him this time, it wasn’t shy or short. Her lips were warm and soft beneath his, and they were better than he could have ever dreamt of. She pressed impossibly closer, and his hands moved seemingly of their own accord to grasp her waist. He could feel her braid gentling swaying against his knuckles. He supped at her lips like a man tasting a fine wine, and barely suppressed a moan when she opened her mouth and allowed him entry. Her tongue was wet, soft magic that bewitched his own. His entire world shrank till it was centred in her, till he forgot all else and tried to show her what he felt.

 

When he pulled back, when he finally realized he was drowning in her and needed a breath, it took him several seconds to remember where he was. To remember there had been someone else in the room. They both looked at Dany simultaneously, and she smiled when she saw the guilt on both their faces.

 

“Dany, I...” Sansa started to say, but faltered, for she had nothing to say. Jon simply stared at Dany’s smile, wondering if she was going to feed him to Drogon.

 

“I will forgive you if you let me see your wolf,” said Dany mildly. Then she looked at Jon, and her eyes were full of mirth and understanding. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t even hurt. “And I will forgive  _ you  _ if you make me a little carving too.”

 

Jon stood still as Sansa moved forward to show her the wolf. Was she waiting for the right time to kill him in a jealous fervor?

 

“Jon, she is your  _ wife, _ ” said Dany with exasperation. “This wolf is beautiful, and I want something of my own. But not as payment for some imagined slight.” She smiled at him. “Don’t carve wooden figurines every time you kiss her. And lord forbid there is more than kissing, for you will end up making me a wooden fort.”

 

Sansa snorted before she could stop herself. She looked at Jon, and he must have had a funny expression or something, because in the next moment she started to laugh. Dany joined in soon after. 

 

Their laughing faces made him smile. He had been right. This was where he belonged, with his family, with the women who loved him, and each other.

  
  



End file.
